


Dimitte Nobis Debita Nostra

by grey_gazania



Series: This Girl Is Taking Bets [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 616/MCU mashup, Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Gen, Genderswap, genderswap aLL THE THINGS
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-23 10:36:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3764965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grey_gazania/pseuds/grey_gazania
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky Barnes never claimed not to be a sinner.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lust

_"Flee fornication. Every sin that a man does is outside the body; but he that commits fornication sins against his own body." - 1 Corinthians 6:18_

 

 

Bucky Barnes is 15 years old and tucked in the corner of a dance hall that she’s too young for. She has a cup of something that tastes like it was brewed in an old boot, but it’s made her relaxed, happy, and she doesn’t protest when Tony Giordano presses his lips to hers. It feels good. His mouth is soft and he cradles the back of her head with a gentle hand. 

She knows what Sister Mary Margaret would say, but she finds she doesn’t particularly care.

  


* * *

  


Bucky Barnes is 18 years old and she kisses like a champ — soft kisses, aggressive kisses, slow sweet kisses, kisses in dance halls and movie theaters and darkened doorways.

It might be sinful, but she doesn’t plan to stop.

  


* * *

  


Bucky Barnes is 19 years old and tangled up in bed with Bobby Garcia. Her clothes are strewn on the floor and she runs her hands over every bit of him that she can reach, reveling in the feeling of his skin against hers.

He presses in and she swears the world stops spinning.

  


* * *

  


Bucky Barnes is 22 years old, home from work and hanging up her coat, when Steve notices the bruise on her wrist.

“You didn’t get that in a fight,” he says, eyes narrowed.

“I’m fine, Steve.” When all he does is glare, she sighs and says, “Mr. Fitzgerald got a little fresh yesterday, okay? But I’m  _fine_.”

She won’t call it a kiss. It was  _nothing_  like what she’s shared with Tony or Richie or Patrick or Bobby or even Tommy Malone, who was sloppy and had bad breath to boot. What Mr. Fitzgerald did was an  _invasion_. Steve must see it in her posture or her face, because his mouth thins and he sits up straighter.

"I thought you said this was a  _good_  job,” Steve says. “He sounds like a pig and a bully.”

She snorts. “What do  _you_  plan to do about it, cough on him?”

It’s mean, but Steve will forgive her, and the truth is that she’s worried. She doesn’t like how pale he’s been lately, how his body has been shaking and how his breath catches in his chest. The Fitzgeralds pay more than most and Bucky knows they’re going to need the money.

"Sorry,” she says after a moment. “But you don’t have to worry, okay? I can handle it.”

  


* * *

  


Bucky Barnes is 25 years old and the US Army has decided that she is theirs. She tells Steve that she enlisted and wonders if he sees through the lie.

  


* * *

  


Bucky Barnes is 26 years old, sitting in a tent and staring at a blank sheet of paper while raindrops patter on the canvas above her. Colonel Phillips wants reports from everyone who was captured. He wants one from her in particular because, thanks to “Captain America,” she’s the only person who came out of Zola’s lab alive.

The trouble is, she doesn’t know what to write.

Steve has asked her the same question, though not so bluntly — _Are you all right? Do you want to talk about it? Tell me what you need, Bucky; whatever it is, I’ll get it done._

_I don’t remember much_ , she had said. And for the most part, it’s the truth.

She doesn’t need to tell him what she does remember. He knows she was beaten, tortured, and he’ll have heard about the other thing the guards did by now. Her squad knows, and even if the rest of the unit doesn’t…well. It’s not as though she was the only one.

_(“He’s a dead man walking,” Dum Dum says in a low voice. “That’s a promise, Sarge.”_

_Gabe nods sharply in agreement as he shrugs out of his shirt and passes it over to her._

_“Thank you,” she whispers, her voice hoarse._ _If her hands shake as they close over the warm fabric, no one mentions it.)_

But everything from Zola strapping her down to Steve helping her up is hazy, disjointed, just bits and pieces that she can’t string together into something coherent, all blanketed in a fog of fear and pain.

She doesn’t  _know_  what Zola did, and that terrifies her.

  


* * *

  


She doesn’t know her name or how old she is, but she should be dead. She should be  _dead_ , but instead she is strapped to a table while her naked body is pruned like a tree. A man is grafting metal onto her like some sort of sick arborist. It’s cold against her skin, but not cold enough to make her numb. She can feel every slice of his knife as he opens her skin and reshapes her nerves. The metal is cold, but the arm beneath it is burning with pain. When her vision finally starts to go black around the edges, she embraces it with relief.

She does not  _want_  to know what they are doing to her.

  


* * *

  


The asset does not have an age. The asset was made, not born. The asset kills when ordered, reports when ordered, forgets and freezes at her handler’s will. She obeys without question.

It has always been this way.

  


* * *

  


Bucky Barnes is 98 years old, sort of, and she is sitting on Steve’s couch in Stark Tower. She has a mug of one of Dr. Banner’s mint teas and is hiding in her favorite hooded sweatshirt, the extra-soft one she stole from Steve.

“More tests?” Steve asks when he finds her there.

She inhales the steam from her tea and nods. “Blood samples. And they wanted another look at my brain.”

She hates MRIs. The way the machine forces her to lie still as it closes itself around her head reminds her too much of being wiped. But the remnants of what was once S.H.I.E.L.D. are  _very_  interested in HYDRA’s handiwork. She doesn’t see any point in fighting them.

Steve sits down beside her and begins rubbing warm circles on her back. “You can tell them no, Beck. They can’t really retaliate; you know that if they try anything, the rest of the team will back you up.”

_You’re not that stupid_ , she doesn’t say, or  _Haven’t you learned how this game works by now?_  or  _I do this and I get to stay here; I find those terms acceptable._

Instead she takes another sip of tea and says, “You don’t have to worry, Steve. I can handle it.”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Mikki for editing!


	2. Gluttony

_"Give us this day our daily bread." - The Lord’s Prayer_

 

 

It couldn’t be denied: Winifred Barnes made a fine loaf of bread. It was a staple in the Barnes household when Bucky was a child --- thick, warm slices with butter, crusts in gravy, even honey spread on it at Sunday supper. The steady thump of Ma’s kneading woke them in the mornings and the scent of it baking trailed after them as they left for school. Surely it would always grace their table.

  


* * *

  


"Pater noster, qui es in caelis: sanctificetur Nomen Tuum,” Bucky murmured, kneeling on the hard wood bench at church. _Our father who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name._

“Adveniat Regnum Tuum; fiat voluntas Tua, sicut in caelo, et in terra.” _Thy kindgom come; thy will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven_.  


"Panem nostrum cotidianum da nobis hodie..." But that was practically a joke these days. It had been months since they’d had bread or butter or gravy or honey, months since they’d had anything but potatoes and cabbage and dry cheese. Little Kitty likely didn’t even recall the taste of it.

At night, Bucky dreamed of bread.

  


* * *

  


There was no bread on the front --- just canned rations that left her stomach growling. It was like the Depression all over again; she was always hungry. But that was war. They got what they got, and there was no use in complaining.

  


* * *

  


The Winter Soldier knew, in theory, what bread was. People ate it. She had even poisoned it once, using it to quietly kill a troublesome university student. But her own nutrition came via tube --- tubes in her arm, tubes down her throat.

At least, it did until the mission in Paris.

She and the Black Widow were sent there undercover, two publishing agents on a business trip. Their target was cautious, sticking to crowded places, and so it was that they found themselves out at a café, seated only a few tables away from their mark.

“ _Puis-je vous offrir quelque chose_?” the waiter asked.  


“ _Deux croque-monsieur, s’il vous plaît_ ,” Natalia said in flawless French.  


The man bustled off, returning soon with their meal. The soldier took a sip of water and then bit into her sandwich.

She nearly dropped it in shock as flavor exploded across her tongue. _This_  was what people here ate? It was _delicious_ , meat and cheese wrapped in thick crusty bread. The General hadn’t lied when he called the West decadent.

She ate every scrap.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Drake and Caro for the French!


	3. Envy

_"The object both of charity and of envy is our neighbor's good, but by contrary movements, since charity rejoices in our neighbor's good, while envy grieves over it." - Thomas Aquinas_

 

 

“You know,” Jack said as they walked home, his arm around her shoulders and both of them bundled up against the cold, “I was gonna ask you to marry me next week.”  


The statement hung in the air like the mist from his breath, and Bucky stopped walking, staring at him as the full meaning of his words sank in. “You were _gonna_ ask me,” she said slowly, feeling like her skin had shrunk two sizes. “But now you’re not?”

In answer, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “Drafted,” he said softly. “I leave for basic training in a few weeks. They’re gonna send me overseas and I don’t want--”

He broke off, stuffed the paper back into his coat, and reached out to take her hands. She let him, but stayed silent as he spoke. “I love you, Bucky Barnes,” he said. “I wanna marry you. And I know the vows’ll say _in sickness and in health_ , but if I come back half-addled or with my legs blown off-- You shouldn’t be tied to a man like that. You deserve better.”

“But I want you,” she said, tears stinging her eyes. Her hands shook in his as she said, “I want to marry you, I want to raise our children -- I don’t _care_ if you come home without your legs. You’ll still be Jack O'Hanrahan and I’ll still love you.”  


“Bucky...” He wiped a tear from her cheek, his hands gentle as they always were, and pulled her into his arms. “I swear I won’t so much as think about another woman, and if I come back whole, I’ll marry you first thing. But you work so hard taking care of other people. Let me take care of you for once. Please.”  


  


* * *

  


It wasn’t the first thing Vasily Karpov had stolen from his Winter Soldier, but it remained one of the cruelest. His doctors had strapped her down once more, left her just as conscious and just as paralyzed as they had during the surgery on her arm. But instead of giving, this time they’d taken.

She’d felt every cut as they sliced her open and robbed her of her womb.

  


* * *

  


“Friends!” Thor boomed. He was beaming as he entered the room in the Avengers Tower, clutching a folder in his enormous hands. “I bring news! Jane is with child!” He opened the folder, pulling out an ultrasound print and holding it aloft for them all to see.  


The room erupted with cheers and cries of, “Congratulations!”

Bucky thought she might vomit. She dredged up a smile and beat a quick retreat, counting on the noise and joy to cover her absence. Reaching her room, she pulled the pillow from her bed, buried her face in it, and wept.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Hex for editing!


	4. Pride

_"The beginning of the pride of man, is to fall off from God: Because his heart is departed from him that made him: for pride is the beginning of all sin: he that holdeth it, shall be filled with maledictions, and it shall ruin him in the end.” - Sirach 10:14-15_

 

 

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” Bucky recited, crossing herself as she knelt in the Confessional. “It has been four days since my last Confession. I confess to almighty God and to you, Father.” She took a deep breath and said, “I struck my schoolmate. Several of my schoolmates, actually. Several times. And smashed a banana in one’s eyes.”

“A _banana_ ,” Father Gallagher repeated. “Really, Jane?”

“Well, see,” she said, “I was on my way home when I saw this fella beatin’ up on Steve, and I didn’t have my bookbag with me, so...”

She heard Father Gallagher sigh, but it was the sigh that meant he was amused, so she continued the story with an easier heart. She wouldn't be damned, not for this.

  


* * *

  


It had been a few days since Steve had led the rescued soldiers back to the camp proper, and the world still hadn’t righted itself.

Straight away, the brass had given her a shot of benzedrine and dragged her off for questioning – what had the doctor done, how much had she told him, what did she mean he hadn’t asked about the Allied forces at all? – but it had ended abruptly when she’d had to lurch out of the tent to vomit. Whatever the liquid fire Zola had shot her full of was, it clearly didn’t get along well with bennies. So the nurses had taken her for a physical instead, noting down each cut, each scar, each bruise, frowning deeply at the blood crusted around her ear, the skin stretched too tight over her ribs, and the scar that ran down her abdomen in an angry red line.

Finally she had been allowed to collapse, but she had woken to a world that was still off-kilter, somehow muted and fuzzy and jagged as broken glass all at once. She had a bed, a blanket, food, _Steve_ \--- But even that was wrong; he was huge, broad-shouldered and pink-cheeked, with none of the familiar catch in his breathing or twist to his spine. She could barely stand to be near him, half-convinced that she was still hallucinating, that any moment she would wake to find herself still strapped down in Zola's lab.

She was alone in one of the tents, trying and failing to write a letter to her parents, when she heard someone approach. Not Steve. Dum Dum, she thought, judging by his footfalls. She didn’t look up until he’d taken a seat beside her.

“They got a priest here, you know,” he said, a little awkwardly. Clearly he’d been selected by the men as a delegate. They were worried about her. It was sweet, almost.

“I talked to him yesterday,” Dum Dum continued. He bumped her shoulder gently with his own and, voice softer, said, “You think you might wanna...?” But she shook her head before the words had finished leaving his mouth.

“Naw,” she said. “I think I’ll talk to God on my own.”

It bordered on sacrilege, but she didn’t care. Talking to Colonel Phillips had been bad enough. If she had to go over what had happened one more time, she might start screaming and never, ever stop.

  


* * *

  


It was the only time the Winter Soldier had ever balked at a mission.

"He's a priest," the soldier protested when General Karpov gave her her orders. Priests were _clean_ , weren't they? Clean and pure and somehow above the political mechanations that concerned Department X.

"The church exists only to exploit the people," the General said dismissively. "This man is a leech, living off the work of others. Now, what strategy would you propose?"

The answer didn't sit well with her, but she tamped down her dissatisfaction. It wasn't her place to argue. Instead, she considered the Generals question. After several moments' thought, she suggested, "During Confession? Confessionals were small, dark, private --- a good place for secrecy."

The General was looking at her oddly.

"Sir?" she asked.

"Confession takes place in public here, soldier," he said.

She frowned, puzzled. She could have sworn--- small booths, dark, with a screen between them...

"Report to Dr. Mikhailovich," the General said. "You're confused. _Confess_ any other old memories to him, so that he may remove them."

  


* * *

  


“Want to come to Mass with me?” Steve asked one day. They were curled up together on the couch in Steve’s living room, half watching the news and half simply enjoying each other’s company.

“Mass?” Bucky said, a little surprised. “When’d you turn so religious, Stevie?”

He rubbed the back of his neck and gave a small one-armed shrug. “A lot of stuff’s changed -- even Mass -- but... I dunno. It’s comforting, I guess. I go to St. Patrick’s Cathedral, up in Manhattan. It’s got a good thousand people on Sundays. S’not so hard to blend in.”

She shook her head and, before he could protest, said, “Steve, I’m not goin’ to Mass without first goin’ to Confession. And that’d be the ugliest confession any priest’s ever heard.”

“Bucky---”

“No. Just drop it, okay?”

“Okay,” he said softly. He wrapped his arm around her, and he never brought it up again.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Drake and BlueshirtBirdie for editing!


End file.
